Rewind
by Andraiyel
Summary: No matter how hard it tries, death cannot separate people who love. Did he ever really have any other choice? Tokio Hotel TomxBill Halloween fic
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Just a short chapter fic for Halloween - couldn't resist.

Categories: Slash  
Characters: Bill Kaulitz, Gordon Trumper, Jorg Kaulitz, Original Female Character, Simone Trumper, Tom Kaulitz  
Genre: Alternate Universe, Horror, Suspense, Twincest - Not Related  
Main Pairing: Tom/Bill  
Side Pairing: None  
Warnings: Blood, Minor Character Death, Violence, WIP

The warnings and genres will change as the story commences, so keep an eye out if you are wary of the things I write ;)

* * *

"Dad, I already told you. The party starts in an hour and it'll last until, like…" Bill stared at the purple wall in front of him for a moment as he thought before he turned his head and covered the phone speaker with his hand. "When will it end, Sophie?"

The girl lying on the bed beside him blew on her wet maroon-colored nails and shook her head. "Pfft, you know Danny. This thing'll end whenever you want it to. I'm pretty sure he'd keep it going for days if that was what you wanted."

Bill rolled his eyes and grinned, bringing the phone back to his ear. "I'll get home around two or three, okay?" He paused for a moment, listening. "Dad, there is no way in hell I am going to be home at eleven, I'm already almost eighteen. I think I've at least earned the right to stay out late." There was another pause as the frown on his face deepened and he picked at the seam of his black jeans. "You have to give me more credit than that, I mean seriously. Do you honestly think I would do something like that? I'm not retarded," he snapped, his tone frosted over with irritation.

Sophie rolled off the edge of the large bed and glided over to the vanity to put away the nail polish, fluffing her thick brown hair when she caught her reflection in the mirror as she waited for Bill to get off the phone. 'Told him it would have just been easier to go and explain it afterwards…' she thought impatiently, leaning against the wall of her bedroom and crossing her arms over her ample chest, watching Bill from beneath thick black lashes.

"I know, I know." The frown lessened, but his expression did not seem to be any more pleased with whatever it was his father was saying. "Yeah, but you didn't need to bring it up again. That was three years ago, dad." Bill laid back on the plush carpet and stretched his long legs out across the floor, bumping Sophie's platforms. She kicked his leg lightly and fell back down onto the bed, perched above Bill. She waved her hand in a circular motion to make him get on with it. He flipped her the bird and turned over on his stomach, still listening to his dad ramble on about something, probably not even relevant to the original conversation anymore.

The corners of his glossed mouth began to turn up in a soft smile and he drew faceless designs in the thick purple carpet. "Yeah, I love you too, dad. I'll see'ya later," he finally said, sitting up slowly as he listened to his dad finish what he was saying. "Okay, okay, see'ya tonight. Around three," he added quickly as a finalizing thought before snapping his phone shut and ending the call. "Okay, it's all good." He grinned up at Sophie and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, breathing a sigh of relief.

"So you can go? Or did daddy say no? Do I need to bring little Bill back at eleven?" she cooed, reaching over and pinching his cheek condescendingly.

He slapped her hand away and glared. "Oh, stop being such a bitch, let's just go, okay? God, why am I still friends with you?"

She smirked, "I love you too, Bill; and you're friends with me because I get you into the best parties this side of the century."

"Oh yeah, that's right."

* * *

"Oh, Bill! You should have heard the noishes coming out Etienne'sh mouth when I-"

"Eww! I don't wanna about thaaaat!" Bill giggled drunkly, leaning on Sophie as she leaned on him. Three games of beer pong, 4 shots, and a whole lot of weed later, Bill was worse for wear; not that he could tell. Sure, his vision was a little fuzzy and nothing could hold his concentration longer than 4 seconds, but he felt great!

Now, he knew he probably wouldn't in the morning, 'My symptoms are headaches, vomiting, and sensitivity to noise, doctor!' he thought absently, still giggling obnoxiously, but that was soooo far away from now! Live in the moment and not ahead of it, right?

"Biiill? Biiiiillll!" Sophie was snapping her fingers sloppily in front of his face, scratching his nose with her maroon fingernails a couple of times as she tried to make the snapping sounds with her uncoordinated fingers.

They were already at his car that was parked down the road from Danny's house and Sophie had his keys in her other hand, jingling them each time she wobbled on her platform heels. "Biiiillll~" she whined in a sing song voice. "We're at your car…" she trailed off, tapping at the window with one nail and staring down at the black Audi like she didn't even believe it was in front of them either.

Bill tried to swipe the keys out of her hand, but ended up just knocking them the pavement, the ring of silver keys sliding beneath the Audi and into the dark. "Damn…" he muttered, staring down at the ground like the keys would magically reappear and levitate up into his hands.

But that would be too easy.

Dropping out from under Sophie's arm and bent over, hitting his head on his car. "Fuuuuuck, that hurt!" he yelled, clutching his forehead as he crouched on the ground dazedly, already having forgotten what he was even doing. His head was pounding like a mother and he kind of just wanted to sleep there now. Home, shmome, what was the difference? He blinked in confusion and sat on his butt, legs splayed out before him, and tilted his head back to look at his equally inebriated friend, who was leaning against his car, half asleep.

"Get the keysh, shtupid…" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and smearing her blue eyeliner all over her cheeks. "I wanna go home and sleep…"

Oh. Right. That's what he had been doing. Lying down, he pressed the side of his face against the cold, rocky street and looked under his car for anything that even remotely resembled keys. Rock. Rock. Rock. Condom – used, eww. Pop can. Keys! He grabbed them up – careful to avoid the condom – and jumped up in a wobbly manner, grasping at his friend and the car to keep his balance. Mission accomplished, captain!

Jabbing the door and the handle, he finally managed to insert his key in the lock, completely ignoring the fact that he had a button whose sole purpose was to unlock the car for him. Sophie went to the passenger side as Bill unlocked that door too, and they both fell into the car, sitting there for a moment to get their bearing.

"Do you jusht wanna shleep at my houshe?" Bill slurred, keying the steering column until he managed to finally get the ignition. 'Why are there two of everything?' he thought in a daze, staring in wonder at his four hands gripping both steering wheels.

But she was already passed out in the passenger seat, dead to the world. He took her snoring as a yes and put the car in gear and jamming down the gas pedal, the Audi lurching forward and pealing out of the neighborhood at top speeds. Bill squinted his eyes to try and focus his vision, but it wasn't helping, the street wasn't getting any clearer. 'Maybe drinking so much was a bad idea…' he thought as he pushed the power button on the stereo and Lady Gaga flowed out of the speakers.

His eyes fluttered to a close momentarily as he was rocked by the gliding motion of his car. He jerked them open, though, as soon as he realized what was happening and squinted at the road. 'Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate,' he repeated in his head like a mantra, barely noting as the houses on the side of the road gave way to fields that gave way to trees. Even with his lights on it was impossible to see anything. He leaned into the steering wheel, his chest pressed against it, his chin resting on the outer ring. He was pretty sure if it got any darker that… well it would be really dark.

But then the sky did start to get lighter and everything around him became more and more sharp. He leaned back in his leather seat. How did he do that, was it magic? He grinned stupidly, no it was probably Lady Gaga; she had commanded it from her home in his stereo. Yeah that was it.

Bill did not see the light getting narrower and narrower until it became to, large circles that continued to rush closer. He did not hear the blaring horn over the speakers of his car blasting "Again, Again" or the shrieking of the other driver as he liberally applied pressure to his horn. He did not feel the swerving of his car as he turned the wheel in time with the music or the rumbling of the nearing truck that was trying to avoid the little Audi that was almost invisible in the pitch black night.

Bill was in another world, high as a kite and skipping to the beat of his own drum.

The crunching of steel on steel and glass shattering around him, Bill did hear. Being wrenched from his seat and flying through the windshield, he did feel. The pavement getting closer and closer, he did see.

But after that, everything was horrifyingly black.

* * *

"He's not going to make it! You need to get him open and stitched, now!" the woman yelled at the others as they slid him out of the ambulance into the horrendously bright hallway.

"What about the girl?" A man asked as he rushed over, to take the place of the EMT, holding the mask over the boy's face as he squeezed the bubble at the end at a steady rate.

"Three broken ribs, fractured clavicle, swelling to the brain, possible spinal injury – the report says there wasn't any more time to check for other injuries. She is immobilized and being rushed to the OR to relieve the cranial pressure as we speak," another nurse relayed to him in a spew of words going at a mile a minute.

"And the other driver?" he asked, trying to stay calm as he ran alongside the gurney that was headed to the OR.

"Still conscious and breathing on his own – stable; everything else, I was told, could wait to be examined."

"Good. And him?" he finally gestured down to the boy, dreading what he was going to hear.

The nurse faltered, her voice catching as she tried to find words. The look that she gave him was all he needed to see. She did not need to tell him that he would not make it through the night, if even the next hour. "He has severe internal hemorrhaging, as well as outer, a punctured lung, an array of fractured ribs, cranial swelling - the list only goes on, doctor," she said, her voice trailing almost to a whisper like the boy were already dead and she was disrespecting him by talking about it.

"OR, now," he ordered, "Open him up, stop the bleeding, do whatever it takes." He was already clawing off his long white jacket and running to the sinks, scrubbing down as fast as he possibly could. Every second counted.

The nurse just nodded and they passed the boy off to the OR nurses who just nodded in her direction, rolling the gurney away. She had never seen so much blood. Ever.

If he lived through the night, it would be a miracle like no other.

* * *

"Mr. Kaulitz?"

"_Yes, who is this?"_

The nurse spun around in her chair to note something on another file before responding, "I am calling from St. Andrews Hospital, your presence is needed immediately."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. _"What happened?"_ he finally asked, his breath hitching.

She paused, staring down at the file she had in her hand for the young man she was calling about. Why did she always get stuck with these calls?

On the other end of the line the silence was deafening for Jorg Kaulitz. _"Well, what is it? Why are you calling?"_ His voice rose, panic starting to set in.

"Your son, Bill Kaulitz," she heard the sob before she even finished, "- is currently in urgent care and we think it is best that you come down here as soon as possible." Pause. "We don't think he has much time…"

There was no response on the line, only a loud thud as the phone dropped and the dial tone as it finally hung itself up.

* * *

A/N: Yay? No? Tell me what you think so far. Chapter two will be up in a short while.

Reviews are greatly appreciated


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Warning: Some may find the language in this chapter offensive. Just a heads up.

* * *

Jorg Kaulitz stared down at his son. Pale, still, cold.

Maybe it was just a joke? Maybe Bill was just sleeping? Maybe he forgot where he was again and had just simply dozed off, like when he was a child.

…No, even he could not bring himself to believe that. There would have been grins instead of pained grimaces and trembling lips, giggles instead of sobs. He had never seen his son so still in his life, and he had hoped he never would. If it were a joke, Bill would have been twitching, fidgeting, moving in some way, because he was always moving – bouncing from one place to the next, smiling, laughing…

'_Even in death he is beautiful,'_ Jorg thought as he stared down at his only son, trying desperately to keep the threatening tears at bay, to keep them from spilling out onto already wet cheeks. He looked peaceful, the thick rings of eyeliner missing from around his eyes and the piercing from his face, but he was unmistakable – thick, shining black hair, softly colored skin, naturally pouty lips. Of course, under the makeup – layers upon layers of foundation, painted on in thick, heavy coats – his face was nothing to speak highly of anymore – bruised black and red, jagged scratches running up and down his pallid cheeks; yet even that moment at the hospital that seemed years past, walking into that acrid cloud of disinfectants attempting to mask the scent of death, disease and despair – seeing his son lying on the gurney, broken and battered, had made him realize how beautiful he really was, despite all of the flaws that now covered him from head to toe. Nothing could subtract from it, not even the harsh pains of reality.

But he still cried; burst into tears as they fidgeted nervously before him, trying to say that Bill was not going to make it through the night, that he had no chance; sobbed when they pulled the pristine white sheet up over his son's contused face, the silence in the room deafening as the beeping of the machines ceased; wept as they finally ushered him from the room, prying him away from the hospital bed they now needed to roll down to the morgue, conveying their cold, robotic sorrows to him; and he cried when he finally stepped out into the bitterly cold night air, his gut clenching with guilt, the harsh reality of everything slamming down onto him until he could not take it and became sick in the bushes nearby.

Only when his key turned in the lock and he stumbled through the front door of his (_their_) home did the tears abruptly stop, drying up into nothing and making his face tight with grief.

Because crying would not bring him back.

Bill was dead.

His son was dead.

Jorg finally ripped himself away from the thick wooden coffin, pulling his gaze away from Bill's dead (_sleeping_) face. He couldn't look at it anymore. He just couldn't.

Soft whispers vibrated off the white walls of the church around him, scratching and clawing at his ears like rabid, hungry dogs as he sat down in the first row of pews.

"_Did you hear about that poor girl, Sophie? She was in the car with him when Bill drove out in front of that truck. What was he thinking?"_

"_I wonder what they're gonna do with Bill's stuff…"_

"_I heard that Bill was sooo wasted when he started driving…"_

"_What a waste. Bill had such a pretty face."_

"_I feel for the father, you know? I mean, he already lost his wife not that long ago to that psycho in the States, now this."_

"_Did you go up to the coffin? I just can't! Dead people are so gross!"_

"_You have to wonder what kind of person would get behind the wheel in a state like that."_

"_Why are we even here? I don't even like Bill."_

"_It was definitely his fault, god! Bill deserved everything that he got."_

"_I-I c-can't believe he's dead! Bill was l-l-like a b-b-br-brother to meeeeee!"_

"_Dude, can you believe they actually had an open casket after that accident? I totally thought we'd come in here to look at some pulp of a person in that box."_

"_Kids have to get it from somewhere, and with that father of his it doesn't surprise me. We all should have seen something like this coming from a mile away."_

"_Bill…"_

"_Bill…"_

"_Bill…"_

"_Bill, __Bill, __Bill, __Bill, __Bill, __Bill, __Bill, __Bill__…"_

Jorg ground his teeth together in an attempt to stop the incessant buzzing in his ears, his blood boiling intensely underneath his skin. Bill's fault? Bill's fault? Only if you thought puppies caused cancer! He would be damned if anyone tried to pin the blame solely on his son - that cunt that dragged him to the party, now that there was the one to pin the blame on.

His nails dug into his legs, bunching up the fabric of his pants in his fists.

What could he even say in rebuttal? Bill had been intoxicated-

_It was that bitch's fault._

-so he really had nothing to go on, but his own thoughts and opinions.

He bit his tongue as the minister took his place, centre stage, before all of the mourners that had decided to attend, his meaty hands clutching a white leather bible as his dark, beady eyes swept over the pews, stopping momentarily on Jorg before moving on like the contact had never happened. He cleared his throat noisily, hands tightening their grasp on the holy book. All the whispering in the pews ceased as attention was focused on the large man wrapped in generous amounts of black cloth cinched together with a thick white collar at the neck. The minister patted the white leather cover and looked robotically over to the – surprisingly – open casket that was occupying the church that ironically beautiful autumn afternoon.

"Today we are here to remember the young man, Bill Kaulitz…" His booming voice sounded throughout the chapel, reaching everyone with the same clarity as if their ears were pressed to his tiny, chapped mouth.

He droned on and on as the sun sank lower between the hills beyond the church, the red-hued light spilling through the stained glass window behind the mountain of a man, making him larger than life. His voice was grating against Jorg's ears, stinging with each syllable, the words burning deep into his mind.

"He was a friend to many, a good son…a kind soul…brilliant beyond his years…

Bill…

Bill…

Bill…"

It was all so passé. This man did not know Bill – no one here knew Bill, yet they were acting as if they had all been the best of friends for years, or that they really cared. It aggravated – no, it infuriated him; but what was he going to do? Chase everyone away and bury his son himself?...

* * *

The sky burned red, smeared with orange and yellow as the trees rustled in the late afternoon breeze. People passed, coming and going as they laid their eyes once more on the dense wooden coffin that would soon be lowered six feet under the ground. Some laid snow white lilies on the dark-grained wood, bowing their heads in mourning; others confronted Jorg, paying their respects and telling him how sorry they really weren't – assuring him that they felt his pain; that they understood what he was going through, patting his back reassuringly.

And he just nodded, acknowledging their condolences absently as he stared blankly into the abysmal hole his son was being cast into.

Because they didn't understand. Their son or their daughter wasn't getting put six feet under just to get ravaged by the worms while they rotted slowly in the dark; their kid was going to go on with his or her life, graduate high school, go to college, have a family… And his? What about his son?

He was ripped from his thoughts when he felt a slight touch on the back of his hanging hand – a soft, feeling touch, one that actually seemed to convey real emotion.

Jorg looked down only to peer into the bruised semblance of a girl who had stared death in the face and managed to come out the other side – but far more worse for wear than she had been before the standoff; a girl who was now bound to a wheelchair indefinitely, her limbs cast in milky white plaster and gauze, bruises and slashes cascading up and down the pallid flesh that was exposed.

And yet, he did not feel for her. Not even in the slightest.

Sophie coughed nervously, casting her haunted gaze to the side as she chewed her split lip for a moment, unsure of where to even begin. It had taken all of her courage to even confront the man before her, and now that she was where she was, she had no idea what to say. Her pale fingers twitched momentarily from where they poked out of the mound of plaster, anxious and guilty.

"…Mr. Kaulitz?" she finally mumbled pitifully, her eyes still not meeting his.

Jorg did not even dignify the girl with a response. He just stood there, his hands hanging limply at his sides, even though he had more than one idea of what to do with them.

A small, unintentional flinch under his heavy gaze seemed to signal that Sophie knew this too, and it frightened her. He frightened her. More than anything she had ever encountered.

There was a slight creak in the wheels of her chair as she shifted uncomfortably, her wide, moist eyes finally travelling up to connect with his. "I- I am so sorry for the loss of your son, M-Mr. Kaulitz…" she stuttered, her painted, brunette eyebrows scrunching together as her eyes welled with tears. "It was never s-s-supposed to happen, I swear!" Her voice hitched as a sob escaped her throat. Her head dropped to her chest as the tears leaked out of her eyes in a steady stream. She could not even look at him, knowing that it was at least partially her fault for taking Bill to that party.

His eyes flashed as he stared down at her contemptible, shaking frame. Who was she to ask him of his forgiveness? Did she honestly believe that her apologies would make everything better again? He had taught Bill better than that; he knew there was no way his son had willingly gotten behind the wheel of that car. His eyes narrowed to barely open slits. It had to have been her fault – this _girl_ must have made Bill drive that night. There was no other way to explain it.

Sophie lifted her head once more, her eyes pleading with him to accept her honest sincerity, her deep sorrow for what had happened. "I am so sorry!" she sobbed, each breath wracking her thin body. "I'm so, so sorry…"

She continued blubbering, groveling at his feet, until her own mother declared it enough and rolled her away, to the car for home, presumably.

But Jorg continued to stand there, motionless and angry, distraught and exhausted. The one thing he was not, though, was defeated. Rage bubbled up inside of him, scorching his veins and arteries, warming his skin, incinerating his heart.

Dusk was now painting the sky with light purples and dark, threatening pinks, but the darkness did nothing to soothe him. In fact, if anything, it only made him more resentful.

His feet carried him unknowingly over to the nondescript tombstone his son now lay under, his fingers uncurling and letting a soft, white rose fall to its base. His car was not far, home was not much farther after that. He would be back, though.

It was far from over.

* * *

_Journal Entry: 10/6/10_

_That… girl, the one Bill used to associate with, tried to approach me today to spew her fake apologies and regrets. She tried to tell me that she knew what I was going through, that everyone was sad about what had happened to Bill, but how could she even begin to understand? She has no idea what I am going through! He was my only son, the only person I had left after Kathryn died and she tries to say that she understands what I am going through? _

_It was her fault, everything. If Bill just hadn't been with her that night, if he didn't "hang out" with her, if he had never met that bitch, he wouldn't be six feet under the fucking earth. And she tries to tell me she understands. It was her fault. Does she understand that? _

_I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't even think without Bill here. Dr. Cudov gave me time off, so I don't have to go in and teach this week, but what about next week? The week after that? The week after that? The week after that? I can't go back and look at all those faceless college students, slouching in their desks and taking their lives for granted. They don't appreciate what I do for them anyways. They appreciate nothing. _

_Bill was going to be in college next year. He said he wanted to go back over to America for school, that he wanted to go to Harvard, can you believe that? My son, going to a prestigious school like that. He hadn't even applied yet, but I know he would have been accepted, he was so smart. He would have done great. I know it. _

_Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. _

_No matter how many times I write his name, it doesn't make a difference. It doesn't make him any less dead, any more here, any less there… _

_But I think I know something that will._

_-J. Kaulitz_

* * *

A/N: Questions? Concerns? Rocks to throw?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Haha, so much for finishing this by Halloween

* * *

Thunderheads rolled arduously across the night sky, their heavy, dark bellies eclipsing the crescent moon and the pinpoint stars. The roaring thunder crashed down on the ensconced town in tidal waves of deafening sound, the threat of rain imminent.

Despite this, Jorg still got out of the car when it finally rolled to a stop beside the wrought iron fence, the twisted and swirled points of each pike looming over him, shining darkly against the roiling sky. It was not raining yet, he still had time.

He walked around to the back of the old barge-like Cadillac and popped the trunk with the one of the keys on his small, jingling key ring and groped around in the darkness of the compartment until his fingers came into contact with the items he had stuffed in there earlier, pulling them from the back of the car as silently as he was able.

Bolts of lightning raced across the blackened sky, tails of hot white light flashing across the horizon. Mere seconds later thunder clapped loudly against Jorg's ears as he slung his canvas sack over one shoulder and elbowed the trunk closed with a thud. The storm was close and only getting closer.

He had been up and down all night, wandering his silent home for hours after the funeral. The emptiness that the house had never felt before bore down on him like a lead weight, ripping his very breath away. It was something that, no matter the length of time that elapsed, he would never be able to overcome, this he knew as fact.

It was not as though he had not given the subject any thought, this was not the case. More so, it was just something that he knew needed impulsive action rather than the careful plot and plan he was accustomed to. But even that was not true.

He thought about it – oh how he thought about it. Long, strenuous hours of turning over each and every possible scenario, every effect it would have, each precious moment he would lose, gain, hold.

Ludicrous! – that is what one part of him was screaming – pleading! – for his rational mind to see. Absolutely ridiculous it was, and this he knew, yet… Was it so? Unethical perhaps, but completely and utterly unreasonable? This is what his other half was whispering sweetly into his ear, its words sweet as honey, beautifully rational to his desperate, needy mind. And the other, the one beseeching him to open his eyes to the truth, to accept what was before him, to live and let go of what had happened, what he had no earthly power to change.

But it would always come back, stronger than before. Change? The past is written for us to be able to change it. It is MADE for us to change! Cloying with sweetness, sly and silky smooth, the words flowed from it – can you do it? Of course, of course! If there was any doubt would these thoughts even be floating around, ripe with possibility? No, they would not. They would not have even been inflated into existence. To dabble any longer with this would be to waste the precious moments necessary for any of this to work. Don't think, just act!

Grasping one of the iron stakes, he eyeballed the width of each gap in the fence, his gaze travelling up and down its length. Nowhere along it did there run a gap wider than six inches, which was not a very forgiving amount neither he, nor anyone he knew, could squeeze through.

His head tilted towards the heavens, he eyed the points that topped each pike, merciless and sharp. Should he manage to get to the top of the fence, the close proximity of one of those points to one of the more sensitive areas of his body would be daunting. However, they stood a good two feet above his head, so it was not a great concern of his at the moment.

How he was to even clamber up was the more forward question in his mind.

Jorg tossed the canvas bag over the top of the wall of wrought iron, the gear finding the ground on the other side quickly with a dull thud and clank. Slowly, he slid his other materials through the stakes of the fence and let them fall quietly to the cold, frosty ground.

Act was what he was going to do. Thoughts at this point were futile, it had been right. Every second guess of himself that he made was a moment slipping through his groping fingers, sliding farther into darkness and disrepair.

Glancing around with frenzied eyes, scouting for any signs of life or any movement at all and seeing none, he stretched his arms above his head, fingertips brushing the horizontal metal bar that ran across the top of the fence, just below the pointed tips of each pike. Jorg pressed his body against the cold iron, straining to reach his fingers farther, just a bit farther…

He jumped for the bar when his stretching was not enough, his fingers wrapping around the bar, but not tightly enough. His grip slipped, knuckles rapping against the solid stakes on his way back down to the ground. Jorg cursed under his breath softly and shook his hands out in the air at his sides, willing the pain away. His knuckles burned as he flexed his fingers, but did not let his throbbing hands deter him as he leaped for the bar again, his feet scrambling in midair as he tried to gain purchase against the vertical bars with his high topped, rubber-soled boots. One boot caught, squelching softly against the slick metal, but the other only met air, kicking through one of the gaps in the fence.

"Fuck!" he cried desperately, his patience and control wearing thin as his leg wedged itself between the bars up to the thigh, constricting the blood flow and restricting his movements. Panic was setting in, psychotic, haphazard panic – worry of getting caught, apprehension of what he was even thinking about doing – everything that his rational mind should have processed but did not settled in amongst the growing fissures and hairline fractures in his conviction.

_I told you. _The other voice came back, berating him with a vengeance as he swung from the fence, trying futilely to pull his leg from the opening. _Even this must be a sign that what you are doing is wrong, and you know it. Trying to fight against the cards that fate has dealt is impractical and it cannot end well. You are only being propelled forward by your own selfish reasons and desires. _

But it was then that the sickly sweet voice from before wove him around its hypothetical finger, pushing his other, rational half to the nether regions of his mind, casting its persuasive spell over him. _There is nothing selfish in what you are doing, because you are doing it for Bill. _

For Bill.

Bill.

That was right; he was doing all of this for Bill and only for Bill, because he was his son. Anything else would not be appropriate or even _right_, because Bill deserved so much more.

The frantic, harried beating of his heart and the racing of his distraught mind slowed, the pestilence created by the irrational rationality of his "bettered" half dying out to a dull ache in the very back of his thoughts. No second thoughts, no second thoughts. Not now, not ever.

Untapped adrenaline, strength he thought, spurred him into action, backed by the force of his renewed conviction that he may have thought of as unheard of or impossible before. Inch by inch the leg slid out from the vice grip of the bars as though it had been slicked up by oil, the dark cloth of the pant leg whispering in hushed tones as it caught on microscopic imperfections in the metal. Knee bent, he swung his leg up, the sole immediately sticking to the bar giving enough leverage for Jorg to swing himself up towards the top of the fence. Resting the entirety of his weight on his hands, he held himself up by his arms, the swirled, decorative spikes poking into his ribcage as he leaned over the top, staring down at the knapsack directly below.

If anyone had seen Jorg at that moment, they would not have seen the red face of a man exerting all of his effort into pulling his girth over the daunting spearheads of the upper iron wall, trying desperately not to impale himself upon them, drenched in perspiration and smelling of anxiety; no, the sight would have been more fearful than the action in which was to come, a man with a phlegmatic demeanor, stone-faced, skin as grey as the stones sprinkled around the yard he was about to drop into, muscles straining under the heavy water-resistant clothing, yet seemingly no strain on the man at all, or at least not any betrayed by his face. His creed was solid, and that was all he needed.

Finally Jorg was able to strategically place one foot between two protruding pikes, angling himself upward with wary care until he was in a standing position atop the fence, legs splayed, feet planted between a couple of the painstakingly welded tips, spearing at his legs. He stared fixatedly over the grounds before him, hawk-like eyes darting about from one stone to the next, searching for the one that held his son's name, the one he had stood beside weeping silently just hours previous. But they were all the same, or at least most of them, and to find Bill's from where he was perched was near impossible.

Thunder pealed directly above his head, startling him from his reverie. Glancing down, he shifted his weight to one foot. More than eight feet below, the ground rumbled lowly along with the music the clouds rendered above, ready to eat him up. The dying, yellow grass and darkly colored leaves rushed up at him as Jorg leaned over to the other side, pushing off the fence. Bone-quaking tremors shook him to the core, his knees collapsing beneath him immediately as his feet touched down, the reverberations knocking him into a roll that only ended when a heavy, rooted grave marker caught him up in its arms of wilted, brown flowers and sad wreaths. Flares or lustrous colors filled his vision as a puff of dead air scattered dried flower petals to the wind, each disintegrating into shadows of what they once were as they were intercepted by other markers and stones.

Dazedly, Jorg laid there in his bed of crackling petals, the lulling qualities of the thunder mixing with the mural of colors painting his vision pushing him closer and closer towards an unconscious state of sleep. His knees and hips burned slowly, throbbing heatedly in an arthritic sort of pain, not as shock absorbent as they had once been.

_It is not time for sleep yet, Jorg_ the candied voice urged him onward, feeding him bits of motivation, fueling his internal fire. _Not time for sleep yet, not time for sleep yet…_

Hands rubbing already rising lumps on head and back, Jorg stood, swaying to the left and right as his balance returned of its own volition in a leisurely manner, his sight focusing, unfocusing, focusing again. It was finally when he was able to move again that he gathered his bag into his arms, soft hands wrapping steadfastly around the wooden shaft of a heavy, sound spade.

The first drops of rain began to fall, tentatively at first, but gaining courage and speed as the first wave saturated the cold, hard ground. Silver streaked and nebulous, the clouds let rolls of thunder crack through the frigid air, the gods above booming in anger, their voices travelling through the rain-filled air as loud as gunfire and sounding just the same.

The storm… it is not the same. This thought rang through Jorg's thoughts, pulling at something in his subconscious memory, yet nothing at the same time. He felt it meant something, perhaps significant or maybe not, but something nonetheless.

Sloshing through the softening grounds, puddles accumulating where the earth dipped and veered into its own core, brought back keen recollections for Jorg; memories of a kinder time and place, fond reflections of a life that, at this point, did not even seem to have existed at all.

It had been when Bill was about ten that they had moved all the way out here, away from the haunting stares of those who pitied them, those that tried to show that they cared, but only caused more pain. It had been then that Jorg realized that he would never be able to live without Bill after that period in time, no longer. It was then that he realized what a responsibility he really had towards his son and that was when he truly tried to fulfill it instead of hiding and putting it off onto someone else.

Bill had always been his pride and joy, his flesh and blood, but it honestly does take certain things to truly make a person appreciate what they have in life. Only the two of them against the world, Bill had become more precious to him than ever before.

Some called this obsession, overly caring for his son, but how could he not? He was (_is_) perfect in every way shape and form and made Jorg so proud with everything that he did. He would never admit to coddling his son or sheltering him, just caring, simply caring. Only caring. And never had Bill said anything against him or his suffocating affection, not a single word. Because Jorg only cared for him, as any father should.

As Jorg reveled in the thoughts of little Bill, outwardly he moved in a mechanical sort of fashion, his subconscious compensating for the lack of focus he had. Although his brown eyes completely glazed over in thoughtful meditation and he was not actually there any longer, his legs propelled themselves onward, leading from memory, weaving through the rows and rows of mossy, sorrowful gravestones amongst new, clean grey ones. Some held flowers of reds or whites or yellows or blues, wreathes of different woven styles, potted plants of all kinds, stuffed animals grungy from the elements, and other knick knacks, while others were barren and despairing, forgotten and slowly fading into black, the rain washing down only helping in this process, eroding away the once meticulously carved words of endearment and praise from those that still lived to those that were beyond this world.

Yet Jorg noticed none of these things, lost in a world of his own, between this one and the next. Of their own volition, his limbs moved, plopping the soaked canvas sack onto the ground beside a carefully chosen stone that read simply:

_Bill Kaulitz 1989-2010, In bliss he lives, the world beyond accepting him with open arms. Thoroughly he will be missed, and may he be guarded from harm._

Jorg awkwardly swung the spade he was carrying into a position that made the blade perpendicular to the ground. He placed one foot on one side of the blade, the other one the opposite side, and jumped down onto it, the pointed metal top slicing deep into the muddy earth and being the first of many gouges in the yawning grave. The rain-saturated ground made the work much easier than it should have been, given the near freezing temperature of the night, but water pooled in the hole he created, the deluge of mud soaking his shoes, socks, and pant legs.

It didn't matter, though. He had more pants, more shoes…

His white, billowy breath fanned out before his face as it rushed laboriously from his slack mouth, shredded to pieces instantly by the rain. It pounded down onto the soft ground like bullets hitting cement, completely covering the slosh of his shoes in the hole, the ugly plopping noise of the mud piling on top of itself as he threw it out of the grave that only grew deeper with each sweep of his arms. Other than the sound of the rain, there was really nothing else going on around him – no cars passing leisurely through the downpour, no animals screeching or barking in the darkness, nothing. Just him, his labored breathing, and the mud.

To say it would have been easier to have a partner, someone to help him, would have been lying – it would have been so much harder. Perhaps not in terms of the physical labor he had to do – no, that would have made the time pass so much faster and he probably would have been done by now; but to him, this meant much more than just a chore or some type of… manual labor that needed to be done. It meant so much more, more than some "partner" would have been able to recognize or conceive; because this – or at least he viewed it as such – was a mission, or a trial rather, given to him by whatever cruel sonofabitch or bitches were above at this moment. They were testing him, seeing if he was strong enough and even deserving of having Bill and keeping him. Clearly they didn't think he was. Why else would his precious boy have been taken away?

This only made him dig with a new fury, faster than before.

Jorg would first be fucked by a pitchfork if he wasn't going to prove them wrong.

It felt close to days, weeks, months, even years, before the feeling of sinking finally ceased, his mud-caked shoes atop something substantial, something more solid than the ground had become. Without even thinking he dropped to his knees, his blistered hands scraping away the last layers of dirt, flinging it up out of the gaping, water-filled chasm he felt the grave was turning into. His clothes, wet and splattered with mud, clung to his frame as he frantically wiped the remnants of earth off of the top of the wooden casket, his fingernails scratching into the wood as though he were going to dig through it as well.

A sob wracked his entire body, pulled deep from within, when he finally saw the dark wood shining up at him from beneath the mud caking the top. Tears streaked his ruddy face, mixing with the cold rain drops falling down. It was only the lid of the casket, yet he thought he had never been so happy in his entire life, had seen nothing more beautiful than what he was seeing now.

Resisting the sudden and strong urge to just fall atop the casket and cry, Jorg stood on wobbly legs, reaching for the canvas sack that had lain forgotten until now. He dragged it into the hole beside him, it landing with a wet, heavy, clank as it hit the wooden lid of the coffin. Numbly, he extracted a smaller shovel – miniscule compared to the other – and dug away at the walls of dirt and mud around the upper half of the lid. Fingers slick with water and runny mud, though, made the handle slip and slide through his fist, knocking into the lid and denting it with each and every hit. Jorg growled in frustration and chucked the gardening shovel to the other side of the miniature pit, resorting to the use of his hands, clawing away at the crumbling earth ferociously.

His hands ached to the very bone, blood spinning in muddied rivulets down his hands as his fingers grazed rough rock and sharp roots protruding from the walls. Stopping was not an option, though. He was so close.

And then it was done. Everything was cleared away but the lid of the casket. He sat there for a moment, just staring and not quite sure what to do. He didn't even remember being done until now. But he had done it! He really had…

Jorg leaned his face back and looked up to the roiling skies, the rain that continued to fall pelting his exposed face, wiping the dirt away with its frigid, unrelenting fingers; and he closed his eyes, shoulders slumping and let it, exhaustion washing over him in greater waves than the rain. Because he really wasn't done, not even close.

Lurching forward, he grabbed the edge on the upper half of the lid, digging the nails that were not broken into the wood so his grip would not slip. He leaned back tentatively at first, testing the seal. It did not budge in the slightest. Jorg leaned in once more, bracing himself against the clay and dirt wall, and ripped back, the pall shaking beneath him as he did so, but the seal not breaking.

So he tried again, and again, and again, his fingernails shredding the moist wood and ripping away from his fingers in small bloody chunks. But it was all to no avail, the seal did not even tear in a tiny section, which was all he needed it to do to open the fucking box.

Furiously he reached for the small shovel he had cast aside early, jamming it into the crease where the casket opened, repeatedly.

"Gah!" he shrieked, stabbing at the wood over and over in a blind rage. How the fuck could he have gotten this far, only to be stopped by a motherfucking seal? Not now! Not when he was. This. Far!

His breath came out in jagged pants as he mutilated the dark wood, chipping and tearing away at it with the bladed shovel, his eyes wild and animalistic. No damn box was going to stop him. No fucking way in hell.

The seal popped open. Broken.

With the shovel raised above his head, he stopped, chest heaving madly. It was open? Really? A short, high-pitched, mad laugh escaped the back of his throat in a loud peal. It was open! It was fucking open!

The shovel dropped with a metallic thud at his side as his hands fell, clamoring with the lid, pulling it open in one swift jerk of his shoulders.

But then he stopped. Abruptly, he was frozen.

Dumbly he gazed down at Bill's sleeping face. Jorg couldn't move, he could barely breathe. He was seeing his son again, far before his time. But this was not how he wanted to remember Bill, and that was the thought that gradually got him moving again, reaching into the canvas bag once more for a thick, blue tarp to keep the rain away. Slowly and particularly, he unfolded it in a manner that would have been found peculiar had he been being watched. He draped it over himself and used his own body to create a tent above the open box, averting his gaze from Bill's face as he worked.

Gingerly - oh so painstakingly carefully - he reached his hands under Bill's cool, limp body, and wrapped his arms around him, pulling the boy out of the pall by his underarms. Jorg listened to the creaking of the wooden lid as it, little by little, began to take on the weight of not only Jorg, but Bill as well; but he ignored it and hugged his son closer to him as he dragged him from the wooden jail cell he had come to see the coffin as, Bill's clammy cheek brushing his as he was finally able to pull the boy out.

He ripped the tarp off of his head and hastily wrapped it around his son to protect him from the pouring rain, cautiously and precise. The rain was quick and merciless though, and it hit every part of Bill that was exposed although Jorg did everything in his capabilities to prevent it. A few drops splashed on his powdery, pallid cheeks, running down and through the skin-toned makeup as though the inanimate Bill was crying silent tears – in gratitude or agony was unclear.

Cradled in his arms Bill lay, wrapped tightly and lovingly in the water-resistant tarp. Not even his shiny black shoes peeped out from under the blanketing tarp, much to the pleasure of Jorg as he gave the "parcel" a quick once over to make sure his job was thorough while he stumbled out of the abysmal hole, setting Bill down first and then crawling out himself.

He picked up his son once more and shuffled dazedly away from the open grave, not bothering to retrieve his shovel of bag or to fill in the hole, leaving it open and gaping, a festering wound on the face of the landscape. He got what he wanted; there was nothing left for him here.

"You don't have to worry anymore, Bill," he whispered, stroking the blue canvas where his son's face lay underneath, "I am taking you home."

* * *

_Journal Entry: 10/6/10 Cont._

_I guess it should technically be set as the seventh, but this is a continuation of the previous entry, and I have yet to sleep or start the new day, so I am sure it is of no matter either way. _

_I did it. I really did it. I cannot believe quite yet that I did, but I did do it. _

_I went and retrieved Bill. _

_Frankly, he did not belong there anyways, disintegrating in that dark, muddy hole. He deserves much better than that, I am sure that anyone would agree with me, it is just simple logic. _

_I did not quite know where to place him for the moment, so I laid him in the outer freezer in the garage. It is at a time like this that I am glad he convinced me to bring that six-foot monster over when we moved; otherwise what would I do now? Plus, I could not very well just put him in his room - the stench would become unbearable at one point or another, so at least this way I can keep him longer. _

_I suppose the appropriate question at the moment would be: what next? _

_Unfortunately, I cannot divulge that at the moment, because I am loath to have the answer myself. Well, I do have one, but it would perhaps be best if I kept that to myself; because as I always taught Bill: Never write something down that you will regret later, by someone finding it or you yourself seeing it again. _

_In the next entry, I will put it then. I will. Because with Bill, I regret only one thing – letting him leave the house that night. _

_But I can fix it, I can fix him, I can fix everything. Because it was never meant to happen like this, no, not at all. It is up to me to set everything right once more and I take the responsibility fully and willingly. _

_I must go and kiss Bill good night now and then turn in myself, because digging is exhausting work and I need to be tip top in the morning. _

_I will fix everything._

_-J. Kaulitz_

* * *

A/N: Thoughts?


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